


Cold Hands

by Khadgarfield



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Catholic school AU, Lack of Communication, M/M, Modern AU, Mutual Masturbation, Not a Happy Ending Sorry Babes, Not-fully-negotiated consent, Pining, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, SchoolChaplain!Uther, Sharing a Bed, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, mentor/student dynamic, semi-unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:08:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29188314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khadgarfield/pseuds/Khadgarfield
Summary: Its a weekend trip to interview a prospective student. Arthas goes with Uther at the behest of his father, even though he graduated almost a year ago.
Relationships: Uther the Lightbringer/Arthas Menethil
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Cold Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Please note this story has age gap stuff, mentor/student dynamics, and semi-religious undertones which may be a sensitive topic for some readers. Take care of yourself, and be proactive in managing your personal internet experience. Read fic responsibly. <3
> 
> xoxo  
> Your friend Garf

These days, when winter sets in, Uther thinks he feels every second of his age. Too old to die young, too young to have lived a good, long life, Uther sits in the car and watches as Arthas scrolls through his spotify on his cellphone. How long does it take to pick an album to play over the stereo? Arthas wears his nails long, filed into shapes like thin flower petals. The sound they make when they tap the screen feels like it’s tapping on the inside of Uther’s skull.

“I don’t care what you put on,” He says, turning his eyes back to the intersection. Even with the wipers going he can barely see the road. He can make out that there’s a blinking red light, shining through the rain and fog, but its barely distinguishable from all the other twinkling pinpricks that make up the urban skyline. It’s been a long drive to get here – nearly five hours. It will be another two before they reach their destination. The inside of the car smells like Wendy’s and Monster energy, and Arthas has been surly the whole trip. Uther understands breakups can be hard, even though he’s never experienced such a thing first-hand, but the last time Arthas saw Jaina was two weeks ago. Shouldn’t he be over this by now?

Maybe he really doesn’t understand.

“That’s not true,” Arthas tells him, settling on something that is heavy and angry sounding, and Uther has to bite back the urge to tell him his devil music cannot help him with his woes. Arthas looks at Uther expectantly, uncanny blue eyes daring him to say something that could be critical, but to do so would be conceding a battle he has already been losing. Arthas makes him feel even older than he is, even more than the youngest of the students he teaches. Maybe it’s because he remembers when Arthas was his student, too. Maybe it’s because Arthas just makes him tired.

The traffic lights change. Uther sets his jaw, exhales slowly, and presses his foot against the gas pedal. The heater, which had broken halfway through their drive across state, is blasting cold air that makes the hairs on his arms stand on end. Their breath generates condensation ghosts on cool glass. It distorts the colours and shapes blurring past them.

This is Uther’s life, now. A weekend trip. An interview with a prospective boarding student. It’s something Uther has done a million times except this time, Arthas. Arthas in a hoodie and looking glum, his old uniform folded tidy in his overnight bag so that tomorrow he can pull it on and pretend to be the picture-perfect prefect. The principal’s son. He’s the ideal image of what a child might be some day and yet, he’s nothing but a lie. How old is Arthas now? Uther has to count the years by visualizing his fingers. He’s old enough that he wears stubble, the same pale gold as his hair. He’s old enough now that he should be in college. Yet somehow, in spite of everything, he is here now with Uther. His college textbooks his sister had given him remain unopened, and stashed inside a box beneath his bed.

Arthas has always had an air of the listless about him. It was identified as rebellion when he was a child, but in adolescence it read as full blown obstinance. He’s older now, yes, but at the same time he is ageless. Forever young, eternally ancient, Arthas is the archetypal tortured youth. Uther thinks they must both be at a crux, then - the same crux that finds Uther clenching his rosary beads against the steering wheel, because he wears them wound around his wrist to remind himself of his transgressions even as they come like raindrops on glass. Arthas sits beside him in the car like he’s in confessional, refusing to speak, but he picks at the edges of his sleeves like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Maybe he doesn’t. If he realized, Uther thinks he would force himself to stop. Instead, he sits and looks out the window, introspective and miserable, or maybe Uther is just projecting.

He reaches to turn off the car heater.

Just a few more cities. Just a few more highways. Not much longer now.

Uther is tired.

…

Arthas gazes out the window, and watches the skyline of shadows and lights distort through the lens of driving rain. It’s cold in the vehicle cabin, but he doesn’t notice, blocking out the way the backs of his hands prickle, blocking out the way he can smell Uther’s body right beside him, even blocking out the sound of his music playing over the stereo. It’s the same playlist he has heard a thousand times. Arthas’ thoughts, in truth, are a universe away. They light on the darkest corners of his cosmos, as the weather lulls him deeper into the shadows of his mind. He thinks of Jaina, fleetingly, and he thinks of his father pressing him to come here and do this, for a cause he only halfway believes in. It’s the least he can do for the school, really. He has been so restless and idle since he graduated nine months ago.

Most of all, though, Arthas finds himself lost in thoughts of Uther. Uther sitting next to him. Handsome. Tired. Arthas' stomach sours. He hates the way he notices all of these things, the way he knows the other man’s face even with his eyes closed. When Arthas was young, he was auburn haired, bearing the simple baby face of a boy next door, but in middle age he is striking and serious, sections of his hair snowy white from some condition Arthas can’t recall the name of. The lines etched on his face are the ghosts of stray thoughts he could not catch and subjugate, and Arthas knows that he wasn’t always the picture of temperance and self-discipline he likes to project to the world. Arthas can tell it again from the look on his face, when he surfaces from his reflections and reaches to change the music. He wonders if it’s hatred, he can see brewing there behind dark amber eyes, or if it’s despair, or if it’s any other number of things that Arthas can’t begin to think about.

“Put something peaceful on,” Uther asks flatly. Arthas picks another heavy metal album. Uther’s jaw clenches tighter, but he doesn’t say anything.

They arrive at the motel, and Arthas sits in the car while Uther climbs out and jogs through the sleet to the reception. The desk inside the building looks like another universe, warm and bathed in a bright yellow glow. Even from here, though, Arthas can tell something is very wrong with whatever is happening behind those glass sliding doors. Uther, strange in jeans and boots and a brown leather jacket, leans on the desk with a hunch that reminds Arthas of when he marks book reports, except he looks like he’s frowning and discussing something of life or death importance. When he erects himself, and lays his palms flat on the surface in front of him, Arthas knows the argument is not going his way. He is too soft spoken to force them to fix it, though. He leaves the reception, and comes back to sit in the car with his hair dripping, his posture tense. Arthas watches him as he reaches for the stereo and shuts it off. The silence echoes loudly in the small space.

“They’ve messed up the booking,” Uther tells him. Arthas feels his stomach drop.

“What do you mean?”

Just one bed.

Just one night.

 _It’s fine_ , he tells himself, as he watches Uther open the notebook he keeps in the glove compartment, and record the receipt details in it by the light of his phone. _It’s fine, I can ignore him, it will be fine._

Uther writes with his left hand. Arthas remembers when he was six years old, merely a child, and he had watched some other teacher beat a student for unintentionally writing left-handed. Arthas wishes he could strike Uther now, tell him that servants of the devil write like that, but he knows it is not Uther who reaches for the devil’s hand.

…

The hotel room is dull. Bland. Completely impersonal. Stepping through the door feels like stepping into a liminal space, and indeed Uther supposes that’s exactly what it is. The carpet is grey, the walls are beige, and a painting of a bowl of fruit hangs over the bed. The only window in the room is narrow and hardly lets in any light at all. Rain tracks down the plane of it, only fragments of the world are visible outside.

Arthas wastes no time pushing past him to yank the drapes, blocking out the night and the sounds of a strange place. He dumps his bag in the corner. He strides to the fridge in the kitchenette, and jerks open the door to peer inside. Uther wonders where the pleasant, albeit stubborn youth he used to know had gone. _When_ he had gone. When was he replaced by this stiff, angry young man who shared only his beautiful face. His clear blue eyes. His hair like a shining river of gold, hanging in a curtain down his back.

 _Dangerous thought to have,_ Uther reminds himself. _Don’t think about that._

“Do you want to shower?” Uther asks, setting his own suitcase down next to the bed they need to share and checking his watch. It’s 11.42pm. Arthas shrugs, and takes out a carton of milk. He opens it and drinks straight from the top. When Uther looks down to his feet, and the dirty khaki carpet beneath his boots, he can see water stains spreading like rot over the floor. It feels like the room might be corrupted. He finds it utterly disgusting. Probably unlivable. And yet.

Tonight, he will live here. Just as he will live many other places, still. Most importantly, tonight he will live with Arthas, who replaces the milk, turns his back, and peels off his black t-shirt to reveal a fine, freckled shoulders underneath. Uther thinks that terrible thing again.

_He’s so beautiful to look at._

As was lucifer, before the fall.

Uther checks the door is locked, drops down onto the edge of the bed, and begins unlacing his boots. He can hear the sound of Arthas changing, rummaging around in his bag for fresh underwear. Fresh socks. Maybe a pair of sweatpants he can wear as he climbs into bed. Uther misses the days they would talk to each other, and Arthas would tell him about his friends, his activities, and his ambitions while he listened and didn’t make a sound. Its uncanny to be here now, in a transitional space, with a man who might be a stranger for all Uther could tell. He removes his shoes, peels off his socks, and slips out of his trousers. The shirt on his back feels strange, in the way that almost anything did when it wasn’t clerical. He doesn’t turn around again until he hears the bed creak behind him – Arthas climbing in and preparing to sleep.

“Not brushing your teeth?” Uther asks, twisting around to glance at his charge. Arthas is lying with his back to him, his hair spilling over the pillows and contrasting sharply with the cool white sheets. He does not reply.

Once Uther has cleaned up, brushed his teeth, scrubbed his face roughly with a damp towel, he turns off the lights and crawls into the bed too. For a bit, he thinks that Arthas is sleeping - the young man has still not said a single lonely word. After a few minutes though, lying in darkness, Arthas begins to toss and turn. He twists the sheets, huffing uncomfortably, and Uther can’t tell if he’s doing it because he really _is_ restless, or because he is trying to make a nuisance of himself on purpose. After a while, Uther has no choice but to reach for him through the night and hiss to him that he ought to lie still. For the love of the good Lord in heaven, please lie still.

Arthas does exactly that. His body is rigid for a moment, while Uther clutches his shoulder, and then he relaxes into the touch and into the darkness he sighs. It’s a sound that makes Uther’s heart ache.

“Goodnight, sir.” he says softly.

It’s Uther’s turn to not reply.

…

He is warm. Indecently warm. When Arthas turns his head, he can see him lying there, and his shape is still enough that Arthas can tell he’s pretending to sleep. Arthas feels a flutter in his belly, the kind that makes his throat tight and his mouth wet. He swallows, uneasy, and wonders how many more seconds are left between now, and daybreak. How many more seconds until ‘just one night’ becomes never, ever again.

Arthas lets his fingers creep across the gap between them, but he isn’t sure if it’s by his own volition or if he’s being guided by the unseen hand of God. Beneath his touch, he finds an unfolding terrain of cotton and creases, and then the back of a soft, familiar hand. Uther’s fingers twitch, barely tangibly, and then in silence his hand turns and their palms touch against each other. Arthas feels his guts knot like their fingers when they lace together. He exhales, shaky and audible. Uther’s eyes flutter in the darkness but otherwise, he gives no indication that he had noticed the contact.

Arthas needs to turn his face away. He looks to the window instead, the panes covered by a heavy, dusty curtain. The nighttime in the city is trying to curl around the edges, the shadows of rain on glass breaks the dappled street lights as they bleed onto the end of the bed. The point they are in contact feels hard to ignore, though. It generates a sense of gravity akin to a star collapsing, as though the entire universe is imploding on that point between their palms. Mostly it is pulling at Arthas’ loins, like matter drawn into the core of a gaping black hole. He can sense the resonance of Uther’s biology, he can smell his scent which is like warm oak, and tobacco, and black coffee. His pulse is throbbing a gentle rhythm, and it falls in in sync effortlessly with Arthas’ own.

Arthas swallows again, thickly, and closes his eyes. His back tingles when he feels Uther sigh beside him, and rub his thumb gently over his knuckles.

Arthas’ wants to jerk his hand away and scream. He wants to pull back, and leap out of bed, and never have to look at the man beside him again but at the same time, he never ever wants to let him go. He tightens his grip on Uther’s hand, and Uther squeezes back, and they are clutching each other so tightly Arthas felt like his bones might splinter in his grip. Rather than ache in his palms, though, Arthas feels the ache deep between his legs. He is halfway hard already, and lying on his back, and if Uther can’t tell yet, he will be able to soon. When Arthas releases the squeeze, Uther does as well. It seems to unleash a wave of warmth up his arm and the side of his neck. The hand not clutching Uther’s twitches, where it rests on his stomach. The instinct to touch himself, to relieve the throbbing pressure pooling at the crux of his thighs, was tremendous. He can feel Uther’s weight on the mattress beside him shifting. He moves closer. Their shoulders are touching. Arthas is trembling with how turned on he is, to feel a thick, bare arm pressed against his own.

Arthas has always been in awe of Uther’s sturdy body. He has always admired his broad shoulders and hairy chest, and the way the muscles on his belly are muted by a soft pad of fat. He has seen the man boxing, seen him shoot arrows, he has seen him running laps around the school field at 6am every morning for as long as he could remember. Maybe that was what men did, when they took their quiet vows of celibacy. Punish their bodies until they learned to resist the ruthless hunger of the flesh. Arthas, meanwhile, is too weak in mind and in meat and in spirit. He doesn’t feel guilt, though, except when he does. A lot more than he used to, of late.

The hand holding his clenches again, a squeeze which he returns in silent acknowledgement. That thumb runs ceaselessly over his knuckles. Arthas squirms against the matrass as his cock twitches, tenting the front of his underwear and the sheets. Uther’s head falls softly against his shoulder. Arthas realizes he is sweating cold sweat.

With a hesitation that exaggerates his tremble, he drifts the fingers on his spare hand over his navel, and down the trail of fine hairs on his belly. He delves beneath the band of his underwear, sinks his palm down between his legs, and brushes his fingers lightly against the shaft of his cock. He cracks open his eyes, and shoots a tentative glance sideways. The shadows pool strangely in the blankets, but he can almost believe that he can see the outline of a fattening shape against Uther’s thigh.

With a soft groan, Arthas lets his head roll to the other side, so they can lay nose to nose. He can taste Uther’s breath as he exhales into the miniscule space between their mouths. It’s close enough that Arthas can feel his moustache tickling his lips.

The sheets rustle as Uther moves his own hand, and bends his outside knee up. Again, Arthas notes he moves his left hand, the ghost of it slipping over the top of the blankets to squeeze his crotch through layers of chastity. It’s as though he is simply rearranging himself, while Arthas caresses himself fully and a soft whimper escapes his swollen lips. He wonders fleetingly if Uther has _ever_ masturbated, and simply paid for the act through contrition, or if he really has gone his whole life resisting temptation.

Arthas tries to focus on the point between their palms again, and the way Uther’s breathing speeds up and deepens as the quiet echo of warm skin sliding against itself fills the darkness. It’s unreasonably lewd, and louder than Arthas could ever remember it being, and for some reason it feels as though he is doing it for the very first time. Every stroke of his hand is electrifying, his nerves tingle with the pleasure of it all. Uther makes a soft sound, like a groan or a whimper, and the bedsprings creak as he shifts around and tries to make himself more comfortable. Arthas feels his stomach drop and his heart leap when he hears the sound of fabric rustling. The quiet whisper of a second hand curling around pliant flesh joins the chorus. And then, Arthas hears him sigh. A sigh like agony. A sigh like bliss. Arthas lips feel full and flushed with lust, his grip on Uther’s hand becomes crushing. He can feel himself edging towards release, and it’s wonderful and terrible and inevitable and good but also, it makes him wish he had never been born. Uther’s breathing catches, Arthas can’t stop his back from arching against the mattress. His climax punches him, and drags him down, and an unbidden moan pulls from his chest. The sound shatters the silence, a plate dropped on a stone floor, a rock thrown through a church window, and hot seed spills over his knuckles in pulses that feel deeper and harder than they ever have before.

And then, in the aftermath, silence. Uther is hurting his hand, and wincing Arthas tries to pull himself away. The whine he makes is humiliating, but he is too spent to stop it. He’s too weak to loose himself from the grip, which he realizes with a lurch really might just fracture his knuckles.

“Stop,” he pleads, not recognizing his voice. A sob surfaces when the grip grows tighter for a moment, and then the hand is gone and he is left holding nothing but empty air. The blankets rustle as Uther stands up. The mattress creaks. Arthas watches him stumble to the bathroom, and just lies there with cum cooling on his belly. His orgasm has carved emptiness into his chest, it is throbbing and gaping and bloodied like a socket of flesh.

The tears flow over his cheeks like the rain falls from the sky. They are endless, ruthless, and cold.

…

They rise at dawn. Uther hasn’t slept, and the chilly tap water in the bathroom can’t wash the greasy feeling of sorrow off his hands. Arthas has always been moody in the mornings, and it’s a warped comfort that today is no different. Uther feels his guts churning nonetheless, and he digs around in his overnight bag for a jar of antacids while Arthas tugs on his retired school uniform. It still fits him like a glove.

“I need help, Sir,” Arthas says, and Uther looks up from where he’s fumbling with the zipper on his bag.

“Huh?”

“Help.” Arthas tweaks the loose ends of his tie, slung around his neck. He has never been able to do it himself. He never bothered learning, since Uther would always do It for him. Uther tugs on his own roman collar, suddenly self-conscious. He rounds the end of the bed, and thinks that the sheets still rumpled and pooled against the mattress look grey in the watery dawn. Arthas steps forward around the corner to meet him, and he smells good, like fruity shampoo. It’s incongruous with his morbid expression, and the shadows under his eyes.

He does not meet Uther’s gaze as they stand chest to chest and Uther does his tie for him. His arms hang awkwardly at his side like he doesn’t know what to do with them while he waits.

“Tie your hair up,” Uther tells him quietly. “You’re in uniform.”

Arthas' eyes snap to his, clear blue, yet burning.

“No.” he says stiffly, as Uther slides the knot of the tie up against his throat. His hands hesitate, Arthas swallows and Uther can see his Adams apple bob under the fabric of his shirt collar. His hair swishes as he shifts his weight, from one hip to another, and with terror unfolding in his belly Uther drops his hands. They come to rest on the young man’s waist. Arthas doesn’t move away, but he does inhale shakily and bring up a palm to press against Uther’s chest. Across his heart.

“I don’t have an elastic,” he confesses shakily.

God. What are they doing here again?

They stand like this for a few moments, inches away from one another, Uther’s heart beating so hard it feels like it’s being pulled by a magnet buried beneath Arthas’ ribs. His cheeks are burning, Arthas’s nose is touching the side of his cheek. Between his legs, Uther’s cock feels like a marble plinth. It is heavy. Thick, and aching. The hand pressed over his breastbone is ice-like, but Arthas’ lips are dark and wide and captivating. Uther is leaning in to taste them before he even realises what he’s doing. It’s like slipping off the edge of a high place, like flying straight into the sun, but instead of hitting the ground or burning up he is caught and kept from his prize by the press of a cruel hand. Arthas hisses, as though struck, and turns his face away.

The moment passes, and despair sets in.

Arthas steps back and erects a bubble of personal space around himself. He sweeps his hair back off his shoulder, and with a final haughty glance over his shoulder, he turns away. Uther watches him pick up his blazer from the back of the sofa.

He knows in his bones that the two of them will never speak of this again.

**Author's Note:**

> You guys who inspire me every day
> 
> I love u never change


End file.
